


international conflict resolution

by Chesra



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chesra/pseuds/Chesra
Summary: Otabek discovers that friendship with Yuri Plisetsky is a lot more than he bargained for.





	

The First Great Disaster, or so Otabek liked to call it in his mind, was when Yuri Plisetsky first decided to come visit in Almaty.

 

There was no actual word ‘visit’ in Yuri’s messages - of which Otabek had, in various networks, depending on which one Yuri was using at the moment. The latest was a text, because Yuri had turned off his mobile data before the plane took off from Pulkovo, with his flight arrival details. Otabek had stared at it, dumbfounded, before he realized he only had five hours before he had to pick up his friend at the airport.

 

It had been three months since the Grand Prix Final; three months since they’d last seen each other. Otabek had fond memories of Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki swaying at the dancefloor, admittedly less drunk than they had been in the photos he’d seen from last year. Yuri had stayed half an hour by his side, scowling at his phone.

 

“This is boring,” he had said, pocketing it away in his suit. Just earlier he had survived the wave of congratulations from various reporters, journalists, and fellow skaters. Otabek, who had no such thing to endure (beyond a few polite _you did wells_ and some meaningful handshakes), had been sitting at his designated table, sipping on champagne. Yuri had snuck up to the seat beside him, having left the Russian contingency merrily drinking across the room.

 

“That’s normally the case,” Otabek had said, remembering the Worlds’ closing banquet last season. Victor had been much less enthusiastic then; there had been something _cold_ about him, which Otabek had understood. People like Christophe or Phichit radiated genuine warmth. Victor, for all his charismatic smiles, had this strangely intimidating aura that made people maintain their distance.

 

Yuri was quite the same, Otabek thought fondly. It was what endeared him to Otabek to begin with.

 

He looked back at his phone again, wondering if it was some sort of code. Did Russians often fly out to a different country for no reason? Yuri had done the same, to follow Victor to Japan. It had been a carelessly thrown out anecdote during one of their Skype sessions - the ones that bled well into the evening, until Otabek felt his eyes drooping heavily. But Yuri’s voice, tinged with excitement as he talked about his rinkmates and training sessions and, at some point, his cat, kept him wondrously awake, and he was reluctant to bring up the need to end the call, despite how much later it was in Almaty than in St. Petersburg.

 

“You look like shit,” Alexei, member of the Kazakhstan’s national hockey team and his occasional rinkmate, had observed the next day. The hockey team sometimes practiced in the same skating rink as he did; it didn’t take long for Alexei to take note of him and strike up a conversation. A year back he’d been urging Otabek to try his sport instead, convinced he could pursue a different career path with how he skated. Otabek had disagreed. He’d had his eye on being the first Kazakh to win Gold at Worlds, and he had spent more than five years with this goal in mind. Little could be done to dissuade him, once he set his mind on something. Alexei had realized it soon enough, and chose to staunchly support him from then on. He’d been one of the first to call to congratulate when he’d bagged bronze at Worlds the previous season.

 

Otabek had shrugged. His phone made that tiny beep, something that Otabek was only getting used to, and he fished in his bag for it for a good thirty seconds, before locating it beside his water bottle. He opened it to find a selfie of Yuri with his cat; something that he had promised the night before, though the Himalayan had refused to cooperate. He felt his lips tug upwards; Yuri’s hair was still a mess, and he had eyebags to match Otabek’s own.

 

“Dude,” Alexei had said, his mouth half-open. “Are you _smiling?_ ”

 

Now, Alexei was wearing the same confused expression. “You’ve been staring at that for a while,” he said. Otabek frowned, and contemplated how to explain the situation with the least complication. This proved difficult, as he himself was baffled with what was happening.

 

“My friend’s coming over,” he said at last. “I have to go pick him up at the airport later.”

 

Alexei frowned. “Who’s your friend?”

 

Otabek shrugged. “Yuri Plisetsky.”

 

He watched realization dawn on Alexei’s face. “Yuri Pliset-wait, you mean that fifteen-year-old kid who won last year’s GPF?”

 

“He’s sixteen now,” Otabek said automatically, a fact Yuri never failed to remind him of since the first of March. Otabek had stayed up with him the whole night, watching cat videos. At the stroke of his midnight, he’d greeted Yuri. The other skater had flushed, and then demanded Otabek wait for the remaining three hours before it turned midnight in St. Petersburg, too.

 

“He’s a monster,” Alexei said, eyes wide. “Christ. When I saw what he did on the ice; that was intense.”

 

Otabek felt a surge of pride. He knew that Yuri was amazing, but it flattered him to know other people saw it too. Yuri Plisetsky was going to take the world by storm and surpass Victor Nikiforov. He believed it wholeheartedly.  

 

“But you’re going to be better,” Alexei added, pointing at him. “Work on that, Mr. Hero.” Otabek chuckled at that, and then got back to his stretches. Later on, the alarm he’d set two hours before Yuri’s flight arrival rang dutifully, and Otabek waved a goodbye to the hockey team before jogging out of the rink.

 

It was warmer now, as he slipped into his leather jacket. It was much colder in Russia though; Yuri had been moaning about the cold front for weeks. He turned on the engine to his motorcycle and headed for the Almaty International Airport.

 

As it was off-season, there were few tourists milling in the arrivals area. It didn’t take long for Otabek to spot Yuri; the tell-tale tiger print jacket stood out in the crowd. “Yuri,” he called out, and blonde hair whipped to face him.

 

Yuri’s face broke into a grin, a shattering force in Otabek’s ribs. It always shocked him, every time he saw how clearly Yuri’s expressions could convey pure emotion. “Oi!” Then Yuri was breaking into a run, and Otabek had his arms open before he knew what he was doing. Yuri crashed against him, like the waves against the shore.

 

He had never learned how to swim. In his mind he knew the chances of drowning were climbing higher and higher each day.

 

“Your hair’s longer,” he said, dumbly, once the warmth wasn’t pressed so tight to his chest. He’d seen it, of course, on newspaper articles, livestream videos of the Europeans last January, Instagram selfies, and occasional Skype video calls. But it was nothing to the real thing.

 

Yuri laughed out loud, touching the strands. “It keeps getting in my face,” he admitted. “I won’t cut it off just yet, though.”

 

“Did you bring a lot of stuff?” Otabek asked, suddenly conscious that he’d brought his motorcycle instead of switching to a car. He didn’t know Yuri’s plans - how long he was going to stay, where he was going to stay, what he wanted to _do._ He felt overwhelmed all of the sudden.

 

Yuri shook his head, motioning to the large duffel bag he’d dropped to the floor mid-hug. “I got everything shipped off to Shanghai already,” he’d informed him. “This is a stopover.”

 

Logically, Otabek knew that Almaty was not a stopover of any flight heading to China, but he kept his mouth shut. “I’m not heading there until the end of the week,” he said. They’d calculated the costs - it was best to stay as few days there as possible for the Worlds. He’d gotten silver at The Four Continents last month, savoring the win over Jean-Jacques Leroy, _finally_ , but the Worlds would be a completely different competition.

 

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I’m staying here until tomorrow,” he said. “So tour me around.”

 

Otabek resisted a smile. He’d always liked the brash, demanding side of Yuri. “If you told me ahead, I could have made proper plans,” he said scoldingly, taking the duffel bag from Yuri, who released it without any complaint.

 

“I wasn’t sure Yakov would let me go,” Yuri admitted as they walked out of the airport. “But I promised I’d get more practice in Shanghai, so.” His grin was toothy and sharp. “Also, he has his hands full with Victor and the pig.”

 

Otabek laughed. Since Yuuri Katsuki had moved to St. Petersburg after the New Year, Yuri’s stories about the couple had gotten even more long-winded and extensive. “They never take those damned rings off,” Yuri had grumbled, more than once. “He already won a Gold medal at Four Continents - does Victor specifically want one from the Grand Prix Final? Well, tough luck. The only reason he won that one is because _I_ wasn’t there.”

 

“You’re quite confident,” Otabek mused. They reached his motorcycle and he hooked the duffel bag carefully to the back, then handed Yuri his extra helmet.

 

“I am,” Yuri said, grinning. “I’m the best.” He took out his phone and motioned for Otabek to come closer. Then, he snapped a selfie of both of them wearing the helmets before tucking it away in his jacket pocket.

 

“Will I see that in Instagram later?” Otabek asked as he mounted, pushing the kickstand. Yuri settled behind him, putting his hands on Otabek’s shoulders.

 

“Maybe,” Yuri shouted over the motorcycle’s revving. “Will you comment on it?”

 

Otabek shook his head, smiling, as they took off. Yuri had always bemoaned how difficult it was to contact Otabek at the start of their friendship; they’d exchanged numbers at the GPF banquet, after they’d snuck out as the event loomed to a close and nothing of importance seemed to happen. Otabek had known that no matter how much Yuri had complained about the danceoff last year, it was much more enjoyable than a stiff party like this year.

 

They found the hotel gardens soon enough, and Otabek shrugged off his suit jacket, enjoying the cold air compared to the freeze of the air conditioner.

 

Yuri was tinkering on his phone. “This sucks,” he said. “The stars look great but I can’t even capture them.” He showed Otabek his screen, which could only capture the darkness. Otabek looked up; Barcelona’s night sky was quite a sight. He supposed some things just couldn’t be appreciated through a camera lens.

 

“I saw the aurora borealis when I was training in Canada two years ago,” he said. “It was beautiful.”

 

Yuri perked up. “Did you get pictures?”

 

“No.” Yuri deflated at that. “I don’t take pictures much, Yuri.”

 

“What?” Yuri practically yelped. “How can you not? Give me your phone!” Mildly confused, Otabek handed it over without complaint. “What the fuck - Otabek, this thing is _ancient,_ ” he said with disgust.

 

Otabek shrugged. “It does what I need it to do.”

 

“Do you even have Instagram on this?” he demanded. When Otabek shook his head no, Yuri’s tone just grew more incredulous. “What is even the point of your account?”

 

Otabek shrugged again. He hated having to deal with social media; his Instagram was upon the insistence of Alexei, who’d bemoaned the fact that their ‘national hero’ didn’t at least have a public channel where the people could congratulate him. It sounded like bullshit. As for photos, he usually just waited until event photographers sent him copies of shots from photo-ops and events. There had been one taken when he’d first arrived at Almaty after the NHK Trophy a few weeks back, which he rather liked. He’d posted it nearly a week ago.

 

Yuri was typing furiously on his phone, and then the next moment he was waving the very picture at him. “Look at this,” he said. “Not a single Grand Prix Final photo yet! I think Phichit has uploaded fifty photos of Barcelona already with the official hashtag!”

 

Otabek drew his eyebrows together. He’d never gotten the hang of hashtags. “I don’t really like this kind of thing.”

 

Yuri looked personally offended at that. Otabek nearly laughed at his expression. He settled for a smile, which made Yuri huff at him. He went back to Otabek’s phone. “You have...only eighty-two photos in your gallery?” he screeched. “Five of these are stock images! Some of these are blurry!”

 

Otabek winced. Yuri was shouting now. It was a good thing no one else was in the gardens with them. “I like to take pictures of the scenery,” he said. He showed them to his family whenever he was home for reunions. Sometimes he took pictures of wild animals, whenever he spotted them.

 

“You don’t even have a single selfie!” Yuri’s tone was bordering on hysterical.

 

“I never figured out how to work the front cam,” Otabek admitted, guiltily. Besides, it was usually fans or relatives insisting on selfies. He never had to take his own.

 

Yuri was looking at him like he was an alien. “Were you born under a rock?” he hissed, gesticulating wildly.

 

“Yuri,” Otabek growled, which chastened the other boy somewhat. “It’s just not my thing,” he said with finality.

 

“Fine,” Yuri said, making some last few clicks on his phone before thrusting it back to him. “I installed Instagram for you. You’re _welcome_ ,” he added, at Otabek’s frown. “Also, type in your account details. You need to follow me back.”

 

Otabek groaned. “Oh my god.”

 

“This is good for you,” Yuri continued. “Come on!” Otabek rolled his eyes, but complied, warily tapping his username and password in. Once done, he returned his phone to Yuri, who delightedly went to his account, and clicked follow. Then, to Otabek’s horror, he began following a whole slew of other people.

 

“There,” he said. “Now you’re following every other senior skater here in the GPF.” At Otabek’s expression, “So it won’t be weird that you’re only following me. Do you know you’re not following anyone at all? That is like. Weird. I’m surprised your account is verified.”

 

“Yuri,” Otabek started, but then Yuri shifted closer to him, brushing their shoulders together, and raised up his phone.

 

“Smile!” Otabek caught sight of his bemused expression on his own phone screen before the shutter sounded.

 

“Ugh, your phone camera is terrible,” Yuri had complained as he scrutinized the photo. Otabek had gaped at him, and then took the phone off his hands before Yuri could do anything else. “Don’t upload that.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Otabek had said wryly. “I’m not going to try and figure out how.”

 

The photo was still in Otabek’s gallery. It was his only picture of them together. Several photographers had shots of them in the same frame from the banquet, but it wasn’t the same as this.

 

He stopped his bike at one of his favorite cafes. “I’m not sure if you’ve eaten already,” he said hesitantly, twisting to look at Yuri.

 

Yuri shrugged. “Just the usual airplane food.”

 

“Let’s go get something before we go around, then.” He parked the motorcycle, and they went inside the cafe. There was a table by the window, reminiscent of the place where they had tea in Barcelona. Otabek ordered coffee, while Yuri browsed the menu for dessert. Eventually he settled on some cake.

 

“So where are you staying?” he asked, after the waitress left after taking their orders.

 

Yuri shrugged. “Was going to look at hotel bookings or something,” he said offhandedly. “It’s just one night.”

 

“You can stay at our place,” Otabek offered. His family wouldn’t mind an unexpected guest. “We have an extra room.”

 

Yuri smiled. “Am I going to meet your family?” Otabek had told Yuri some stories of his family life. He’d been traveling intensively since he was eleven due to training, but he’d kept up with his family through long-distance phone calls, and recently, since Yuri had insisted on making him install it, Skype. Yuri was always hounding him to join more social networking sites, but Otabek was firm against Twitter and Snapchat. “They’re not messaging apps,” he had said. “I don’t need them.” Text messages were fine and good; his family always called him two hours before his competitions, having invested in international roaming. He had WhatsApp, where relatives and friends sent well wishes and congratulatory messages, which he often saw after the competition was already done. Otabek only ever checked online when he could access hotel wifi, anyway. Yuri, on the other hand, treated his phone like an extension of himself. Otabek rarely saw him without it.

 

Like now, as Yuri snapped photo after photo of the food that had arrived.

 

“They have apple cake in all parts of the world,” he said, amused. “They have that in _Russia._ ”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Yuri said, without bite. “I just want to remember this moment.”

 

Otabek supposed that made sense, though why an apple cake could be considered worth remembering was beyond him. Yuri lifted the camera suddenly, training it on him, and once again Otabek was caught off-guard with another photo.

 

Yuri doubled over his screen. “Look at you,” he said, between giggles. “You’re so.” He didn’t finish his sentence, just showed the photo over to Otabek. It was a completely unflattering shot; his mouth was half-open, and his forehead wrinkled. Otabek sighed, and took the phone away. “Hey!”

 

“This is confiscated until we’re done eating,” Otabek said sternly. Yuri pouted, but didn’t argue. Instead, he focused on eating his cake and telling more stories about their training. Victor had wanted to join the Russian Figure Skating Championships, though Yakov had put his foot down, and insisted he focused on training and return next season instead. This meant Yuri was their main bet for Worlds since he’d won Gold in the Europeans.

 

“It’s like a free pass, though,” he said grimly. “I’ll know next season, for sure, if I can compete with Victor.”

 

Otabek smiled warmly at him. “I know you can do it.”

 

Yuri pointed at him. “You better do well too! I can’t believe you let that pig beat you!”

 

Yuuri Katsuki, if anything, had improved further with his skating. Everyone had been in awe at the Four Continents. Otabek knew he’d be a hard person to surpass, but he had faith. He’d reviewed his program for how he could overtake him. “I’ll redeem myself next week.”

 

Yuri nodded, satisfied with that, and finished his cake in two bites. He held out his hand, and Otabek reluctantly returned his phone. Yuri grinned again, and then brought up his gallery.

 

“I saw these cool shirts before boarding earlier,” he said, and Otabek was happy to simply listen to Yuri talk. It was different from phone calls; his voice seemed richer, clearer, when it was a mere feet away. Even though he was describing something menial as how the immigration officer had scrutinized him, asking if he had a guardian, Yuri had a way of crafting the story into art. It was the same with his skating. Otabek looked forward to seeing it again in person. He would never tire of watching Yuri Plisetsky on ice.

 

“-so Yakov says, ‘fine! Go to Almaty and visit your friend!’ Georgi looked like he was going to have a heart attack,” Yuri said, half-laughing. “He was so sure Yakov wouldn’t let me go, after that stunt I pulled last year.” He grinned, cupping his face with his hand. “But Victor did so much worse.”

 

“He’s much older than you,” Otabek pointed out. Yuri rarely left Russia except for skating events, and rarely without supervision. Of course, he was a few years younger, but Yuri had always seemed fiercely independent to Otabek.

 

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Whatever. He does what he wants, so I can do what I want. Besides - you’ve been going to different countries all this time.”

 

Otabek could not argue with that. He’d shifted from coach to coach, joining training camps and taking classes from masters. But Yuri hadn’t needed anything like that - he was Russian, and ice skating was in their blood. There were many willing to train someone who showed as much talent as him.

 

He looked at his watch, and was surprised that it was already well into the afternoon. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I still have to show you around.”

 

Yuri leaned back against his chair, his hands propped behind his head. “It’s no problem,” he said. “Just take me anywhere you find interesting.”

 

Otabek had initially considered bringing Yuri to the usual tourist spots, but cathedrals and parks would probably never make it to his Instagram. So he handed the spare helmet to Yuri, and they got back on his motorcycle.

 

“So where are we going?” Yuri asked, after half an hour of driving. They were speeding past the city, until mostly fields and dust were the only scenery left.

 

“You’ll see,” Otabek said. In reply, Yuri leaned in closer to him, the full weight of him felt like a searing heat mark on Otabek’s back.

 

The road grew bumpier. They had to slow down on account of the snow, which was fast melting. “Hold on,” he said, taking care not to swerve. Eventually, they reached their destination. The sun was about to begin its slow descent to the horizon, giving the snow capped formations towering above them a golden glow. He felt Yuri jerk against him as he took in the view.

 

“Whoa,” Yuri said, the wonder clear in his voice as he pushed himself off the bike. “Amazing.”

 

Otabek took off his helmet. The Charyn Canyon was one of his favorite places. Yuri wandered close to the edge, marveling at the sight. Otabek hovered by his bike. He had no history lesson to tell Yuri; his brain was suspiciously devoid of facts that were crammed into his head from school. But this was his calming place; he had gone here, on his return to Almaty, when he was contemplating the meaning of endurance. He was glad for the opportunity to share it with Yuri.

 

He let Yuri take as much pictures as he wanted; which were surprisingly few. He seemed satisfied with some selfies and several shots of the scenery. There was a click, and Otabek turned his head to find Yuri hastily turning away. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

 

“If we had more time I’d bring you to the Kolsai lakes,” he said, as Yuri returned to his side. “I’m sure you’d love it there. But your flight is tomorrow, so.”

 

For a second, Yuri’s lips curved downward, but then his eyes brightened. “That’s ok,” he said. “We’ll save it for next time.”

 

Otabek smiled, giddy at the the idea that there was a next time.

 

It was getting dark, so he decided it was time to go back. An hour of driving later, his motorcycle choked to sudden stop, throwing them both off-balance.

 

Yuri’s helmet banged against Otabek’s. “Ouch! What’s happening?” Yuri demanded. Otabek frowned, twisting the key to turn the ignition. Nothing. Then he glanced at his gas tank, and felt his heart sink.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I forgot to refuel.” He’d completely overlooked the logistics in his haste to show Yuri something worth seeing. He got off the bike. Yuri followed suit, putting his hands on his hips.

 

“What now?”

 

Otabek shrugged. “Guess we walk until we find a station.” He took the motorcycle by the handlebars and started walking. He heard Yuri curse. “Sorry about this, Yuri.”

 

“It’s fine,” Yuri said, distinctly behind him. “Here, I’ll take my bag. It’s extra weight.”

 

“You don’t have to-” Otabek started, abashed, and he turned to the sight of Yuri unhooking his bag away. “Yuri,” he said, imploringly, stopping in mid-push.

 

“Otabek,” Yuri said in the same tone, steel in his eye. He never knew how to budge. Otabek sighed.

 

They walked in silence; not a single vehicle passed in the same road. Otabek was about to curse his terrible luck when he spotted a gas station in the horizon. Yuri bumped against him on the shoulder, stepping up beside him. Otabek would have warned him off the road, but they’d hear if anything was coming. Instead, he quickened his pace, eager to get back to riding. This wasn’t training - Yuri wasn’t supposed to be pushing himself to exhaustion with a big competition coming up. He took Yuri’s bag away from him, with minimal protest. Already Yuri was sweating, despite the sudden dip in weather since sunset. Otabek scolded himself for letting this happen.

 

They reached the station soon enough. Otabek headed for the fuel dispenser; Yuri, meanwhile, strode directly to the convenience store beside it, and returned with a bottle of water and a granola bar. He bit into it, taking off half, then waved the rest in front of Otabek. His hands busy with the gas pump, Otabek chose to lean down and bite, his mouth barely grazing Yuri’s fingers. Yuri made a choked sound, and Otabek looked up to catch him mid-grin. They both chewed in silence. Yuri finished off the rest of the bar and crumpled the wrapping paper, tossing it to the nearest trashcan.

 

“Water?” he offered, after taking his own swig. Otabek returned the pump, dusting his hands off on his jeans. He took the bottle, drank as little as he could, and thrust it back to Yuri.

 

“Come on,” Yuri said, frowning. “You can have all of it. I know you need it more than me.”

 

“I’m fine,” Otabek said. Yuri rolled his eyes and pressed the bottle back into Otabek’s hands anyway, closing his fingers on it.

 

“It’s yours,” he said, and once again, Otabek didn’t argue.

 

The ride back was quiet. They reached his apartment with only an hour left before midnight. After parking his motorcycle, Otabek suddenly remembered he hadn’t even sent a text to tell his mother he was bringing over a guest.

 

Fuck. He was such a disaster today. He grabbed his bag and Yuri’s, leading them to the lobby. While waiting for the elevator, he started rummaging through his bag.

 

Yuri watched him. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

 

“My keys,” Otabek said, as the the elevator door opened. “And my phone,” he added, as they both stepped inside.

 

Yuri stood shock still. “Your - what?” His tone suggested he found the second thing hard to believe.

 

Otabek hadn’t looked at his phone since he’d left for the airport. He was half-tempted to explain that Yuri was practically the only person he talked to with it, family notwithstanding. He opted to keep searching his bag instead, so he wouldn’t have to look at Yuri’s face.

 

Eventually, he located both, just as the elevators opened again. It was too late to let his parents know, so he led Yuri past the narrow hallway and directly to their apartment.

 

His mother met them at the entrance, probably alerted by the sound of the door opening. “Beka! You’re home late - oh?”

 

Otabek sighed. “Mama, this is my friend, Yuri Plisetsky. I forgot to tell you he was coming over,” he added apologetically. Yuri coughed behind him.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Yuri said, in impeccably polite Russian. His mother, if anything, turned an unexpected red and stammered hellos.

 

“He can stay at the guest room, yes?”

 

“Of course!” His mother replied instantly. “It’s so late - have you had dinner already?” When Yuri shook his head, his mother turned a glare at Otabek. Otabek shifted, not interesting in incurring his mother’s wrath for no reason. He settled for leading Yuri to the guest room instead.

 

“Do you need a towel? Extra clothes?” Yuri shook his head no, gesturing to his duffel bag. “Ok. You can take a shower first, and we can eat. And Yuri,” he said, as he was halfway out the door. “I’m really sorry about what happened earlier.”

 

For a second Yuri looked confused, and then he laughed. “Don’t be stupid, Otabek. That was the best fun I’ve had in a while.” He gave Otabek that rare, bright smile, and Otabek felt his heart make an inexplicable skip.

 

“I’ll just change,” he muttered, feeling the sudden need to not be three feet away from his friend, which didn’t make sense. He shuffled away to his own room, where he was able to trade his outfit for something more comfortable. He washed his face after, strangely aware of how hot he was. Maybe he was more tired than he thought from pushing his motorcycle around for that long.

 

Once he was done, he knocked on Yuri’s room, to let him know it was time to eat dinner. Dinner was even more uncomfortable; his family had eaten, but his mother hovered, and his little sister, who was half his age, was staring at Yuri, wide-eyed. Otabek hoped Yuri wasn’t upset by the attention. Surely he was used to people watching him all the time. It was hard to tear your eyes away from Yuri Plisetsky on the screen - how much more in real life?

 

His father was busy watching television, but passed by to get water. He’d gawked at Yuri, too, then stared at Otabek as if to compare. Otabek contemplated glowering.

 

“Thank you for the food,” Yuri spoke up, after finishing his meal, and his mother practically beamed.

 

“No problem, of course! Beka’s never brought home a friend before!” She added. “I’m so glad. We barely see him with all his training - ” his mother started talking about all her woes about her only son. Otabek could see Yuri smiling. Discreetly, Otabek elbowed him on the ribs. Yuri glanced at him, amusement dancing in his eyes.

 

Later, Yuri called him on the phone, even though they were just two doors apart. “Beka,” he giggled, half-mocking in his tone. The sound of his nickname on Yuri’s tongue felt like an under rotated triple Axel. Otabek didn’t know how to balance after. “I didn’t know you’ve been traveling since you were _eleven._ ” His mother would have told Yuri stories about him all night, if Otabek hadn’t intervened, claiming rest in behalf of his friend.

 

“I wanted to be an ice skater since I was eight,” Otabek confessed. “There isn’t much training you can get here in Almaty.”

 

Yuri hummed. “Your family seems nice.”

 

“They’ve supported me from the beginning,” Otabek said, fiercely proud. “I owe them a lot.”

 

“I’m happy for you,” Yuri said, his tone soft. Otabek wanted, suddenly, to bring up Yuri’s parents, but he never spoke of them, only his grandfather. He didn’t know if it was taboo. Their friendship grew stronger every day, but there were no drawn lines. Otabek didn’t want to cross them.

 

So he let Yuri continue teasing him, dragging out more childhood stories by the minute. The last Otabek remembered was his digital clock glowing past 3am, and Yuri’s voice growing quieter as the lights in the house began to turn off, one by one.

 

The next was a knock at his door. Otabek struggled to wake; instinctively, he reached for his phone, a habit he only picked up two months ago, thanks to Yuri’s constant messaging. The time difference hadn’t stopped Yuri sending messages at all hours, though he rarely took offense in the delay of Otabek’s responses, until he found out Otabek didn’t have mobile data. Then he had blown up, yelling at Otabek to join the 21st century.

 

His phone’s screen was black. Belatedly, he’d realized he’d forgotten to charge it. Before he could get away with charging it every other day; nowadays he had to scour for a charger by midday.

 

He fished for his wire in his bag. When he’d finally plugged it in, he looked up at his clock on his table. It was already ten am; it was unlike him to oversleep.

 

A nagging thought was picking at him, but Otabek couldn’t for his life figure out what it was. He didn’t have training with his coach, Franz, until the afternoon. He also didn’t have any PR events scheduled.

 

When his phone finally blinked to life, supported by 2% battery, he was met by a barrage of notifications, mostly from Victor Nikiforov and Yakov Feltsman. There were some from Yuuri Katsuki, and one from Lilia Baranovskaya.

 

Otabek stared at the screen.

 

Then he stumbled out of his door. “Beka,” his mom said, her hand in mid-knock, “I left you and Yuri breakfast-” she caught sight of his look, and stepped out of the way.

 

Otabek hammered on the door to the guest room. He was tempted to just open the door, but he wasn’t sure if Yuri would appreciate that. “Yuri,” he said urgently. “Yuri!”

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Yuri opened the door, yawning. “Why are you so noisy?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Your flight,” he said.

 

Yuri’s expression went from annoyed to panicked. “Oh shit!”

 

Wordlessly, he crossed past the doorway and started helping Yuri put his things on his bag. Yuri was mumbling curses underneath his breath as he pulled off the shirt he’d slept in and changed into another, more presentable one. He tossed the shirt to Otabek, who caught it in one fluid motion. “Have you looked at your phone?” Otabek asked.

 

“I forgot to turn it on after it died and I plugged it last night,” Yuri muttered, picking it up from the bedside table. He winced as his phone opened and he caught sight of the incoming stream of messages. “Fuck, Yakov’s going to kill me.”

 

Otabek laughed dryly. “It’ll be a double murder.” He hadn’t opened a single message himself, but he had a good idea what they said.

 

They were out of the apartment and on their way to the airport in record. Yuri was trying to check in online, one hand on his phone and the other looped in Otabek’s waist. “Don’t drop your phone,” Otabek told him, as he waded through the streets with his motorcycle. That was the last thing they needed.

 

Yuri scoffed. “I won’t. Also - ugh, it says the check-in counter’s closed. I’ll have to rebook - fuck, can they just stop calling me?” His phone had been ringing incessantly since he turned it back on, but Yuri kept rejecting the calls.

 

“Just answer them,” Otabek said, resigned to his fate. “You need to let them know what happened.”

 

Yuri winced behind him. “They’ll never let me visit you again after this,” he moaned.

 

Otabek feared that too. But it was more important to get Yuri on his plane to Shanghai. Yuri would perform wonderfully at Worlds, and his coaches would forgive him.

 

Three hours later, Yuri was finally about to board. Yakov had rebooked him another flight in a different airline, after much yelling. Otabek had heard him arguing with both Yakov and Victor; ranging from pissed off to apologetic to defiant. Meanwhile, Otabek had slumped in one of the airport chairs, messaging Franz that he’d be late for practice today.

 

Yuri gathered up his duffel bag. “I’ll see you in Shanghai,” he said, his mouth drawn tightly. “Don’t miss _your_ flight.”

 

Otabek nodded, feeling the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours catch up on him. “See you.” And then, “Davai,” he added wryly, with a thumbs up.

 

Yuri laughed, looped his arms around Otabek’s neck for a second, and then he was bounding away without so much of a look back.

  
Otabek watched those set shoulders go, a soldier heading straight to war. He could feel the smile creeping up on his face. For all the trouble today was worth, Otabek wouldn’t mind going through it again.

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been screaming about this ship for the past two weeks; it has ruined me so completely in one go?? Anyway this was borne from the idea that otabek likes yuri, but he doesn’t know he likes yuri? It’s all in his subconscious and now we have this beautiful romcom disaster, feat. otabek altin’s adventures in social media. Join me in this incredible frustrating slow burn journey 
> 
> this was going to be a one-shot but it spiraled out of control due to otabek’s ridiculous heights of obliviousness. for someone who is so normally self-aware, he definitely has some blind spots on himself ahaha
> 
> also i did my best for research kazakhstan and ice skating competitions (and terms) but it def isn't as extensive as it should be so if there are inconsistencies i greatly apologize!!! ;w;


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